..::Arianrhod's brothers saw her start and shudder, writhe and sway...she screamed.
It seemed her own body was tearing itself into pieces...yet she could not stop that awful rendering that seemed to be splitting her apart. Something happened...she staggered free.
She turned and ran for the door, swayed and shuddered, and then rushed on.
But she had left something behind her on the floor. What, none had a chance to see, save that it was small. For Gwydion sprang forward and snatching up the object before anyone could get a look at it, wrapped it in a bit of satin he had, and made off with it through the door...::..
Evangeline Walton
The Mabinogion
. . . .
..::The first surviving mention of Mordred (here called Medraut), occurs in the Annales Cambriae entry for the year 537:
Gueith Camlann in qua Arthur et Medraut corruerunt.
"The strife of Camlann, in which Arthur and Medraut fell."
Mordred or Modred; Welsh: Medraut, Medrod, is a character in the Arthurian legend, known as a notorious traitor who fought King Arthur at the Battle of Camlann, where he was killed and Arthur fatally wounded. Tradition varies on his relationship to Arthur, but he is best known today as Arthur's illegitimate son by his half-sister Morgan le Fay. The name (from either Old Welsh Medraut, Cornish Modred, or Old Breton Modrot) is ultimately derived from Latin Moderatus
Medraut is never considered Arthur's son in Welsh texts, only his nephew, though The Dream of Rhonabwy mentions that the king had been his foster father::..
. . . .
'...Surely he knew. Edeyrn may have been evil unspeakable and incarnate, but stupid he assuredly was not!'
'He knew Owein's heir was Malgan, and knew also that Malgan was Arthur's son, not Owein's at all. And the idea of his worst enemy's son as his eventual heir, a Pendreic to be suborned and perverted and given to the Dark, a son of Don, to succeed the Marbh-draoi, was too tempting for Edeyrn's twisted humore to resist...'
Hedge of Mist, Vol. III of The Tales of Arthur
Patricia Kennealy-Morrison
* * * *
Eventually, sleep descended upon the household, if not peace...
Sleep, and dreams.
Daryl, despite assiduous administration of cognac, was back to his old familiar tossing about, unable to find a comfortable position and wishing for a nine pound hammer cure...
An insomniac since he could remember, (Oh, Emlyn believed herself to be among the Night Shift but, he had seen her
sleeping on the sofa when she thought she'd never closed her eyes, and heard her soft snores...), no; his was the real Anti-Morpheus, the Great Sleep Slayer.
Settling down finally into a meditative position, Daryl began slow, deliberate counting breaths, and, after a time, and certainly before he knew it, the Sandman stole upon him all unawares...
...or Someone did.
. . . .
'You.' Daryl eyed Gwydion sitting in the window seat across from him, against a background of stars and a crescent moon, and thought him a poor Peter Pan imposter. He did note his lack of a shadow, however.
Gwydion nearly smiled, a twitch of the lips, as he unfurled himself from the pillows and slowly strolled about the guest bedroom Daryl had appropriated, actually Jack's old practice room.
Daryl was sitting up now, knees up, arms clasped about them, covered only with a duvet up to his waist, chest bare. He watched Gwydion stalk about the room, flicking a glance there and here.
'Not much to command the eye, here,' he dismissed, as his gaze took in Jack's stark work space: katana upon the wall,
a zabuton across from a low ebony table where stood a vase with a new branch of barely blooming pussy-willow. Tatami mats, the futon upon which Daryl had been sleeping.
--Had been.
'Just what...are you up to, Gwydion?' Daryl found his voice at last, and decided to put pretense aside. 'Specifically, regarding my ward, Emlyn...?' Daryl tried to draw himself up into a more dignified and spine-straight position, but still felt somewhat off centre; awakened in middle of the night, half-dressed and hardly suspecting the Lord of the Twyleth Teg popping in on one.
Well, hoping not, anyway...
Gwydion stopped, close to Daryl now. 'Can't you guess?' His eyes gleamed in the half-light somehow. 'I came to visit with my Lady Emlyn earlier. There was someone I wished for her to meet, and to give name to.' His gaze bore into Daryl making him feel as though the ground had just opened up beneath him and he was falling into a vortex...
'My Lady Emlyn...I give leave to reside here, for now,' he nodded, as if conceding a point in dispute, circling Daryl, 'but, your...ward, as you so quaintly put it...' he blinked a slow, slightly distainful look his way,'...is first and always, My Lady. And, Kindred. And, so much more.' He smiled then, showing long, pale, rather canine teeth which gleamed in the weak light of the wee hours.
Daryl frowned then. 'She is my ward.' He quite forgot himself
and whom he was addressing.
'And is that all? Really, now?' Gwydion bent slightly over Daryl, his shape seeming to grow into a large, shadowy form hovering over him, subtley menacing.
'Are you certain you do not wish to be her...foot-holder, perhaps?'
Upon this, Daryl had an epiphany, or two:
In the Mabinogi: Math, the ancient Welsh king, requires a virgin footholder. It was she who had been stolen away by Gwydion and his brother. Their sister, Arianrhod, had then hopes of becoming her replacement. But, once upon a time, or twa, she had met with Someone beside the seaside, nights, and who was to say whom, or what? But, with Someone she was, most decidedly.
Not a man, no. But, still: Someone, who left her virgin no longer. Someone who left her with...a Little Something....
And:
Suddenly before Daryl's gaze, he'd a vision of he and Emlyn, back at Nob Hill House just after her bicycle accident; Em was seated before him, her dainty ankle bare as Daryl, kneeling before her, was reaching out to grasp her tender limb and minister unto her...holding onto her pale, slender foot.
'Hah!' Gwydion tossed his cape over one shoulder, stepped back and asseverated: 'Just as I bethought!'
And: Fade to black...
Nice exit, Daryl admired.
. . . .
Jack's dreams were of another sort entirely. More like a tableu acted out upon a stage for his benefit--starring: Morgana, in the lead role. Sweeping on-scene from stage right, she entered swathed in her ever-present scarlet, onto a medieval 'set', as within a castle; dark tapestries hung upon the walls, flagstone flooring, thick heavy stone walls, and a damp chill which one could feel throughout one's bones and could nearly smell: cold stone.
An old place, a castle possibly. Carved into some of the ancient stones were dedications to the old gods of Roma, from the time of Roman rule. In this hall, were inscriptions to Mars, god of war. Supplications, perhaps.
To a low chest against a wall Morgana focused her attentions; she knelt before it and studied it: a singlular decoration was upon the chest: the flower-of-life motif.
Morgana frowned in studied concentration. Then closing her eyes, she muttered something low, and behold: a soft sort of mist fell about her, swirling, and when it cleared, she was attired in greens, and her face had a softness quite alien to her usual appearance; in fact, she looked rather like Emlyn.
Licking her lips with a long red tongue, she raised her arms toward the chest and scrabbled at the clasps with her long red nails with ratlike ferocity...in vain. She pulled and pushed, spoke spells and curses, prayed to whichever eldrich gods might not take offense at her whining, all in vain. The chest stood inviolable.
Sighing, she at last flopped down on the cold rug before the indifferent chest and growled in frustration.
At that point, the patter of light footsteps could be heard approaching from the hallway. 'Mother...?' a young voice echoed.
She recalled herself back from whence she'd put aside her essence for the nonce, and soon, once more she sat arrayed in her blood-red finery, her face narrow, nose and chin sharp, her eyes narrow as well, cunning and much too-close together...nothing left of an Emlyn-aura, and completely Morgana once more.
Fortunately, for him, her son had almost none of her characteristics, but the attributes of his father shown forth
for all to see: tall for his youth, piercing blue eyes, a full mouth quick to grin that lopsided smile of his, and a great shock of black hair, always falling in his eyes, with a cowlick in back that could never stay down...
'Mother, there you are! What are you doing on the cold floor?' Ever solicitous, the lad bent to aid her upwards to her feet.
Morgana smiled graciously at him; despite herself, her cold blood warmed whenever Medraut was near...she could hardly believe the child was hers, such a sweet and innocent soul.
'What is in this old chest?' Medraut enquired, running long fingers over the ancient wooden lid.
'Open it and see!' She offered, gesturing.
Medraut bit his lower lip and then stepped up to the challenge, studying the clasps and then frowning slightly, he tried the clasps, finding they held fast.
'It won't open. You're teasing me, Mother!' he accused, looking at her as if she was the naughty child and he the parent. Not such a far-off assessment.
'No. Not truly. T'was merely a test.' She put a hand upon the boy's head, red nails splayed over his hair like a large spider resting there. 'One day, you will open this chest, my young dragon.'
'What is inside?' He asked, shaking his head free, and running a hand through his hair; the gesture reminiscent of a certain someone, which gave her a momentary pang of pain, anger and regret.
Her features froze. 'One day, you will see, and then, you will know.'
. . . .
The mood in the kitchen was rather subdued the next morning as the household filed in one by one.
Emlyn was first up, and had made tea, and the ever-present cornbread; adding flaxseed meal and ground hempseed, as well as rosemary and diced onion. She was breakfasting on this, seated at the large oak table in the big country kitchen, eyeing the skies and hoping for rain for a change...it had been yet another dry year. She sighed, returning to her book.
Jack entered then, nodding at Emlyn and croaked a ''Morning...' her way, as he headed for the big teapot nestled neath it's cozy: a familiar reminder of Alice, who had knitted it and several others. She used to get in a knit-frenzy off and on, Em recalled, turning out dozens of items and then would sell them off at charity events. Emlyn wondered, again, how her old friend was faring...wherever, whenever she may be.
Jack took a seat at table, cornbread, apple and tea for breakfast, as had Em.
He smiled at her. Then, adding lemon and honey to his tea, remarked, 'I'm sure she's fine, Em. She and Frank, both...'
Emlyn had noted that Jack was now doing Daryl's trick of mind-reading. She was beginning to get used to it...somewhat.
'How are you this morning, Jack?'
In Jack's new world, rhetorical questions did not exist. He thought a while, and then did some mental calculations.
'I seem to be healing well enough. Just getting used to the 'new', still. I heal, grow, and change, faster than I can process it. That takes time.'
'Sleep helps with all that,' Emlyn smiled gently at her old Jack, feeling a deep concern for him, a warmth, that no longer had anything to do with their former passion for one another.
Jack nodded, just as Daryl entered, grunting a: 'Morning.'
He began to brew another pot of tea; he'd been into the Gunpowder green of late, with rather more punch than either Jack or Em cared for mornings and she'd stuck with typhoo.
'Sleep well, Daryl?' Em enquired, wondering how anyone could, after loading up on Gunpowder. She planned to be away from Daryl before it touched him off and he couldn't cork his runaway mouth...
'Um.' Daryl never was much of a morning sort of person. Whilst tea brewed, he chopped up vegies and tossed them together with eggs for a large frittata. This and the tea he took to table. 'There's some left, if anyone's interested...'
Jack took over then and cut slices for himself and Em as well, divining that she thought the smell inticing. At last,
after food and Gunpowder, Daryl answered, 'No, actually, I didn't sleep well.' He paused and drank his gunpowder, holding the warm mug up to his sinuses, closing his eyes.
'I had a visitor in the night.'
That got their attention. 'Anyone we know?' Em asked, fearing the worst, rather than best, if past experience was anything to go by.
'Oh. Yes. Yes, indeed.' Daryl humphed. 'Someone you know, who knows you, rather well,' he replied, accenting the 'know's'. He looked up at her then, frowned at her book, and stabbed a finger at it, accusingly.
'What did he want then, Gwydion?'
Daryl also snuck a look Jack's way, then realized that Jack had intentionally thrown up a shield about his mind that would keep him from intruding into their thoughts. Bit of self-protection, that, Daryl knew...
He sighed. 'He simply wanted to let me know he was there.
A visit.'
'He...said nothing?' Em asked.
Daryl gave her a hard look. 'He didn't have to.' He finished his meal then went to the sink. 'But, he wasn't quiet, no. He let me know that...he keeps a hand in things still, and that you are here, by his leave, only.'
Jack looked up then, questioning. 'What does that mean?'
Emlyn looked angry, then merely frustrated. 'It doesn't mean anything! He is just...making a show of power. He hasn't a hold on me.'
'Hah!' Daryl turned about, regarding her, arms crossed. 'Are you truly capable of deceiving yourself so thoroughly?'
'Who is this 'Gwydion'?' Jack asked, curious. He stole a peek at the Mabinogi. 'Not, not...THAT Gwydion?'
Daryl looked at him, frowning. 'Her kinsman.' He nodded. 'He all but challenged my guardianship of Emlyn. Blood is dear indeed to the Kelts, and family is all, to them. Especially those of certain bloodlines.' He was battling with himself not to rage at these young...folk. Pouring more tea, he tried to get a grip. 'Why, Emlyn, did you think he was so bent on taking you away with him? Did you truly believe it was all fun and games for a Sidhe Lord?' The gunpowder was kicking in, alright...
Emlyn knew that she'd acted impulsively. But she so rarely let her emotions run away with her...had she been enspelled?
Well, what's done was done. Have to live with the consequences, now. Whatever they might be...
All was quiet for a moment, as Daryl banged about hastily doing dishes and Jack and Em sat with their tea, both feeling terribly guilty about...something. Neither of them were quite sure what, exactly, but a clue was hovering about their consciousness trying to get their attention...
'Dylan, pup!' Jack noticed then the young Shepherd had padded in and sat staring up at him, wagging hopefully. Daryl scraped abit of the egg leavings into his bowl, then washed the big iron skillet. As he turned, drying his hands, Jack spoke up then.
'I had a dream, last night, also.' He said, staring, his gaze focused out the kitchen window at the field and horses grazing on the hay Em had fed them earlier, the pasture dry stubble still. 'I...it was like a scene from a...play, perhaps. I couldn't quite understand it.' His voice became low and his utterings took on a sort of cadence, as if reciting: 'It seemed to be in some sort of old castle or hall, middle ages, perhaps...old, cold stone.' He shivered. 'I could actually feel the damp cold, and smell the air...as if I was there. I didn't recognize the place. But I recognized, Morgana...' he paused a moment, and Emlyn sat up, regarding him as her pulse increased and she began to feel anxious.
'...She was dressed in a long red old-fashioned gown, and she was seated before an old wooden chest with a flower-of-life design upon it. She was trying to open it, but couldn't.
And then...then a young boy, of perhaps 8 or 9 years, came upon her. He was no one I knew...' Jack's eyes flickered to Em and Daryl, a question there, '...but I felt like he was familiar, somehow...' he frowned, concentrating. '...his name was Medraut...'
Daryl uttered a low groan, his head fell to his chest, and he shook it slowly in denial. 'No. Noooo...no, no, no!' He gasped then, and looked up, and Jack and Emlyn were surprised to see tears in his eyes as he fought with himself to hold them back. He bit his lip and shaking his head, he ran from the room out the back door...
'Oh, Jack...' Emlyn softly said, putting a light, tentative hand on his arm, '...what have we done?'
. . . .
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